


Fishing Problems

by midoritakamine



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Fake/Pretend Relationship, Historical Hetalia, Kind of it's mostly references, M/M, One-Sided Attraction, The OCs aren't important they're just there, Unhappy ending-ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-24 05:22:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9705185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midoritakamine/pseuds/midoritakamine
Summary: 16:55       From: RomaniaLet’s you and I go out on a date and you can smush it in his face and make him gag and maybe he’ll be soooooo distracted you can solve that fish problem





	

**Author's Note:**

> "Hey Rod you have a bunch of projects you should work on." Nah.......... I'll work on a brand new fake dating AU for RomNor instead  
> I didn't beta this one bit because I am lazy and frustrated for personal reasons. I'm also not entirely happy with it but I can't be assed to work on it more.  
> If you're curious about any of the historical references leave a comment or message me on Tumblr (mochitaiia) or Twitter (@aphaustria) and I'll explain them to you + give you some links to read up.

It starts as a way to get a reaction out of his brother. That’s how Norway justifies it in his head. On the table in front of him sits the first sheet of paperwork he’s had to handle in a long while. His involvement in his government is minimal these days, so foreign to two centuries ago when he sat on the front lines and stared Sweden down with a gun to his head, spitting his constitution in verbatim to prove his independence and protect his people and government from being overrun.

His lips twist. Thinking of his war for independence only reminds him of how  _ pathetic _ his fight was, and he doesn’t care to think about his past failures. One such repeating past failure now swimming in his head involves his brother.

Iceland has evolved past his youth, his adorable charm and sweet voice and clingy disposition. Nowadays, the most common words out of his mouth are ones of annoyance towards Denmark (understandable), or Norway himself (... understandable, he hates to admit). No wonder he gets along so well with the South Italy fellow; Halloween some four years ago sparked a sort of gripe-exchanging friendship between the two that piqued Norway’s curiosity. Whenever he asks about their hangouts, he gets shooed and told he’s too pushy. He’s just happy Iceland acknowledges him enough to tell him to buzz off, given their recent fight.

As a country of volcanoes, his younger brother happens to possess a fiery temper. Said temper flares much more when you imply he and Greenland got their names mixed up, to which Iceland will tell you to take it up with Denmark because  _ that idiot _ named the two of them despite, y’know, it being Norway who first found the kid alone in the snow with nothing but a thin off-white gown and that insufferable bird of his (Iceland says Mr. Puffin only speaks when they’re at home but Norway’s been around Iceland long enough to have heard the bird squawk foul things and bring an embarrassed, angry flush to Iceland’s face which, if you ask Norway, looks quite cute on him but nobody asked Norway so he doesn’t say anything lest his cute little brother tell him off and kick him out the front door which has happened enough times that Norway wears pants with extra butt padding because  _ damn _ , is Iceland’s front porch hard).

Iceland’s fiery temper, however, is not so charming when it’s diplomatically directed towards Norway.

_ Why are you so mad at me alone _ ? Norway looks up from the table and across the room. Iceland is sitting on a dull green couch next to Sweden, and Sweden is calmly drinking his coffee and offering small nods or shakes of his head when Iceland says something to him. Soon enough his brother shivers and glances at him. Norway offers a cool smile, but Iceland scowls at him in return and restarts his conversation with Sweden (if you can even call it a conversation) with renewed vigor. Norway leaves the kid alone for the moment, his eyes drifting around the room.

The conflict over mackerel is not just between the two brothers. Faroe is involved, as well as the entire EU. If anything, during the meeting Faroe had been the aggressive, angry, loud-mouthed one and because of him, Iceland and his case got dismissed quicker than a civil conversation would have allowed. Iceland should be mad at Faroe for worsening their case, not at Norway for trying to discuss a calm solution to the overfishing problems. Or at the very least, be mad at the entire EU and not  _ just _ Norway.

Denmark is speaking to Faroe, and Faroe looks bothered by something. Isn’t he always bothered by something, though? Whenever they invite Faroe, or Greenland, or any other pseudo-Nordics to their meetings of the Nordics, there’s always somebody bothered about something. Denmark receives the bothered reports because he’s the self-proclaimed leader of the group (which doesn’t make sense if you ask Norway, because Sweden has the highest GDP amongst them so wouldn’t it make sense for him to be the leader? But when he was asked, Sweden hummed noncommittally and drank more of his coffee, claiming it was time for  _ fika _ and he’d prefer to be left alone. Then again, nobody asked Norway so he doesn’t say anything about this lest their self-proclaimed leader cry-talk his ear off about whether or not he’s a good enough leader, and what he could do better to support the other Nordics, and Norway is not in any sort of mood to handle that today).

Why he should care about what Faroe is bothered by is Norway’s next thought. His eyes narrow slightly and he delights at the shudder the scrawny cluster of islands gets, looking around precautiously before his anger refocuses and he jabs a finger in Denmark’s chest. Their leader raises his arms defensively, a nervous smile playing his lips as he says something in an attempt to diffuse Faroe’s anger.

Beyond Denmark and Faroe, sitting on a separate ugly green couch, Finland raises a mug off coffee and toasts it with Greenland’s. She smiles lightly and drinks with him, her hand smoothing over the animal in her lap. Norway still doesn’t know what exactly it is, but it looks and acts similar enough to Hanatamago that he’s content to consider it another dog. He glances up and regrets his visual browsing quickly because his eyes take notice of an unwanted attendee leaning over the back of the couch. Eyes wide and lips spread in an eager grin as he talks to the seated two is Finland’s friend, Estonia. Norway’s eyes dart away and he sighs through his nose; he doesn’t particularly hate the country, but his insistence is… creepy, to say the least. A portion of his mind quips that the main reason he dislikes the Baltic country stems from when the jerk’s army of vikings captured and sold his prince some one and a half thousand years ago, but he digresses. The past is the past, although what may be forgiven is not forgotten and he smiles a wry smile at the thought of his past political enemies. Hell, he’s in a room with at least three of them now.

Finland seems happy enough to talk to Estonia and even more so Greenland, and Norway doesn’t blame him for the latter. Greenland doesn’t often come to their meetings due to how far away her home is, and whenever she does attend she avoids talking to Denmark, and because Denmark is Denmark, he insists on why she avoids him loudly in the middle of a meeting, interrupting whatever not-progress is being made, and for as sweet as Greenland can be she gets petty and when she’s petty, she’s ice cold and her sharp tongue spikes and lashes Denmark up good, leaving their leader again a cry-talking mess of how he can make it up to her to which she turns her back and asks Finland for another mug of coffee. It’s an amusing sight objectively, an annoying one subjectively, especially when the subjectiveness is from Norway because when he has an issue to raise, it’s serious.

And his issue right now, which is not being dealt with because Sweden claimed it’s again time for  _ fika _ and he wants to take a break and for as much as he’s learned to sympathize with his former ruler, Norway doesn’t want to take a break, is the mackerel conflict. He wants to keep Iceland and Faroe cornered in this room and resolve the issue of the mackerel since the EU failed to do so (thinking of the conflict makes him remember what Stevenson said about his brother and Faroe, though he couldn’t give less of a shit about Faroe, but despite this additional fact even though Norway sided with and still sides with the EU on the problem, he doesn’t appreciate implications his brother is a criminal of the sea so he makes a mental note for the next meeting of the magic users to ask England for Scotland’s number so he can complain directly about Stevenson to Stevenson’s country).

The world must be clued in to his mental note. His hair clip vibrates and he blinks once in surprise. He unclips it and examines it; sitting on its hidden monitor (the side pushed against his hair) is a text from one of the magic users.

_ 16:49       From: Romania  
_ _ Heard you’re having problems with Iceland. I have a funny idea to mess with him _

Norway cocks a brow and ponders the message for a little. He briefly wonders how Romania knows this, but then he remembers that they both are members of the EU so of course Romania would have been present when the initial mackerel conflict began.

_ 16:51       To: Romania  
_ _ I’m listening _

_ 16:52       From: Romania  
_ _ You’re not dating anybody, right? _

An interesting question, but one Norway entertains with an answer.

_ 16:52       To: Romania  
_ _ No _

_ 16:55       From: Romania  
_ _ Let’s you and I go out on a date and you can smush it in his face and make him gag and maybe he’ll be soooooo distracted you can solve that fish problem _

Norway looks up. Iceland is smiling slightly and looking at something Sweden has on his tablet. They each have one headphone in their ears and frankly they look like siblings. Norway’s eyebrow twitches with faint irritation at this concept and before he knows what he’s doing, he sends Romania a reply.

_ 16:57       To: Romania  
_ _ Fine. Come to my house tonight _

* * *

 

Tonight must be a subjective term to Romanians.

Norway tilts his head curiously at the sight of his friend on his front porch. There’s scorch marks on the cement, indication he teleported. When Norway offers a hand and helps Romania to his feet, the strawberry blonde man grins and says, “I’ve been waitin’ on ya for a few hours.”

“It’s only half past nineteen.”

Romania shrugs. “I had nothin’ else to do.”

“Besides wait for me?” asks Norway. He unlocks his front door and ushers Romania inside. The house is dingy and shabby still despite Denmark’s constant insistence on helping him upgrade the place. Like he’d let Denmark pick up a hammer let alone construct an entire house; if Norway wants something built, he’ll go to Sweden. If one century of unification taught Norway anything, it’s that he can rely on Sweden to make things correctly.

Norway spins on his heel and examines his guest. Romania is a smidge taller than him, but it might just be because his boots have a heel. His lips are spread in a wide grin and his fists rest on his hips, his pose that of a cliche superhero. Perhaps if Norway wasn’t as interested in why Romania suggested this, he’d play along and pretend to be the damsel in distress for his not-hero.

“You owe me the money for whatever it costs to get those scorch marks off my porch,” says Norway.

Romania laughs. “Get in line, Norway. I owe a lot of people a lot of things, starting with Spain.”

“How much do you owe him now?”

His eyes avert. “More than I owe you.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” counters Norway. Romania just smiles and waves his hand to dismiss the topic. Norway lets it go. “I have a question for you, Romania.”

“What’s up?”

“Why’d‘you suggest this?”

Romania stares at the ceiling. He shrugs. “I asked Moldova what I could do that’d freak ‘em out if we got in a fight. He said me datin’ somebody all lovey-dovey in his face.”

“So,” Norway sits down and gesture for his guest to do the same, “your first thought after your brother enlightenin’ ya was to… ask me if I wanted t’bother Ice?” Romania grins and nods, crossing his legs before he leans forward. With all his excited, open body language, Norway instinctively leans back and squints suspiciously. Being in a union with and being around Denmark for so many years makes him a bit avoidant of hyperactive people lest they drag him into undesirable situations.

Then again, is this even an undesirable situation Romania’s proposing? Norway tilts his head. The Balkan country objectively is pretty attractive, and for as annoying as he can be he’s a reliable friend and good company which are not two things Norway finds himself calling people willy-nilly. In fact, Norway could probably count the number of genuine non-politically induced friends he has on his two hands; he would say one, but if he’s to include his fellow Nordics (four) and the other magic users (two), he needs an extra thumb. He briefly considers if Belarus is his friend given that she took notice of and zoned in on his troll friend the last time the two countries themselves attended a meeting together (the same EU meeting where his conflict with Iceland started, interestingly enough), but he dismisses the idea because they didn’t talk much. He was too shy to approach her.

Somewhere in his thinking Norway picks up a pillow off his couch and hugs it, pulling his knees up and setting his chin atop them. He stares at Romania from across the couch. He doesn’t particularly want to terrify Iceland, but it seems a bit of a stretch for a simple fake date or two passed off as genuine to be something so horrifying to his little brother. If anything it should just embarrass him, or get him off his lazy butt and ask somebody out. The idea of Iceland stuttering and fumbling his way through asking somebody out is endearing in his mind, so Norway smiles and raises a brow at Romania.

“You’re on,” he says, letting his knees fall from his chest. Romania is biting back a grin to which he asks, “What’re you laughin’ ‘bout?” Romania points at the pillow Norway’s hugging. He pulls it back and flips it around; it’s the handmade cross stitch pillow Sweden made him some fifty years ago displaying a grassy green field with two pink bunnies. Norway flushes a light shade of pink and hides the picture against his chest with a huff.

Romania leans forward. “I didn’t know ya liked that sorta cutesy stuff, Nor.” When Norway opens his mouth to tell him to shut up, he gets a slightly tanned hand waving in his face. “Nah, it’s cool. I think it makes ya even cuter.”

Norway snorts. “Save the complementing for tomorrow.”

“Why tomorrow?” Romania leans back into the cushions comfortably, as if he owns the place. Well, he is going to be staying here for the duration of their dating charade so in a way he does temporarily own the place.

“Because,” says Norway with a slightly malevolent grin, “the Nordics are having a follow-up meeting tomorrow and I want you there.”

Romania’s eyes glitter and he smiles so wide Norway’s cheeks hurt just looking at him.

* * *

 

Usually when attending meetings, they never brings guests. The most frequent offender of this is Finland, and Finland always claims it isn’t that he’s bringing Estonia as a guest but it’s more that Estonia has some kind of urgent business to bring up so he tags along with Finland. Today, there is no Estonia (which Norway silently thanks Mother Earth for). Instead, today there is Romania.

He pointedly ignores the strange look he gets from Greenland and Faroe, and he delights in the utter confusion on Iceland’s face at the arrival of the other nation. He delights even more at the scowl Iceland gives the two of them when he notices Norway pushing against Romania on one of the ugly couches and how he rests his chin on the non-Nordic’s shoulder. He faintly hears Denmark squawk in surprise, and when he looks away from his annoyed brother, he sees even Sweden’s face changes a tinge in surprise. Norway doesn’t have time to take note of just how different Sweden’s expression is because almost immediately after Denmark obscures his view of the tallest nation amongst them and their leader is exclaiming so many things Norway can’t understand him.

Romania speaks up however, smiling, “What’s up, Denmark?”

“Romania!” Denmark grabs the shoulder that doesn’t have Norway’s chin on it and blinks several times, as if what he’s seeing is an illusion he can will away. “Wha- I didn’t- you’re-”

“Yep,” says Romania simply.

Denmark looks at Norway. Norway smiles lightly at Denmark. His eyes turn a fraction to the left and he feels joy bubble in his stomach at the look on Iceland’s face. His younger brother’s face is twisted uncomfortably, shifting his weight from foot to foot and the hand usually stroking Mr. Puffin stilled. The one word that comes to Norway’s mind to describe Iceland at the moment is disgust. And disgust is exactly what he’s going for. An idea crosses his mind and he lifts his chin, reaching up to turn Romania’s face towards his own.

Before coming to this meeting, the two discussed boundaries. PDA is only acceptable when another Nordic is in sight, or somebody that would leak their sighting to one of the Nordics (like Estonia; the guy has loose lips when drunk and getting drunk is something he often does with Finland). On that note, a public display of affection at the moment would be appropriate, no? They’re surrounded by the Nordics, and even Faroe and Greenland are here to witness. Norway is smug when he leans forward and presses a chaste kiss against Romania’s cheek. Given their proximity, he can feel the tensing in the Balkan’s shoulders, but it melts away quickly and before Norway can pull away properly, a warm press of lips meets his temple and he feels his own rush of surprise and fluttering.

He isn’t attracted to Romania. He has no reason, political or personal, to be attracted to Romania. That makes the weird fluttering even weirder, but in the end Norway chalks it up to a natural reaction to something new, unfamiliar, and intimate. He hasn’t been intimate in years, decades. His last official relationship was not one of his own choice, and he’s reminded of his war for independence and loss to Sweden and it makes the hand holding Romania’s tighten in a brief flash of anger. Norway catches Romania’s eye apologetically, assuring him the anger isn’t directed at him.

When he sets his chin back down on Romania’s shoulder, listening to Faroe once again make a case against Denmark for something or rather, Norway shoots Sweden a glare. Sweden doesn’t notice. He nuzzles into Romania’s neck for show, and his bothered feelings towards Sweden melt away immediately when he hears a sharp inhale and groan from Iceland.

Once the meeting is over, Norway smiles when Romania whispers into his ear that Iceland makes a beeline for the exit, phone in hand and annoyed disgust on his face.

* * *

 

A week into their fake relationship, they make their first mistake.

It happens when they’re hanging out with Denmark and Iceland. Denmark insisted on a gathering of the three as a sort of family bonding and based on how irritated Iceland looks, he didn’t want to come and see Norway, but when Denmark wants something, he gets it. And get it he does, because sitting at a table at a quaint Danish open-air bar are Denmark, Iceland, Norway, and Romania. Norway coyly asks when he walks up if bringing “my dear boyfriend” (which gets a gag out of Iceland, he notes in amusement) is an issue. Denmark shakes his head and eagerly insists that the more the merrier, ordering another round of drinks.

Norway offers Iceland a Yoggi as is his habit even when in conflict, and Iceland promptly turns his nose up at it and asks Denmark to order him a drink. “But we’re out ta public, Ice- Emil,” says Denmark, setting his own drink down on the table. He chews on his lip, and Norway rolls his eyes. Of all of them, Denmark most often forgets to use their human cover names. “I can’t order ya anythin’ because the age fer gettin’ drinks in restaurants and bars s’eighteen. Aren’t ya physically sixteen still?”

“There’s no problem if you place the order for yourself then give it to me, Mathias,” Iceland smoothly replies. Denmark opens his mouth to retort, but clearly nothing comes to mind and he looks up to catch a waitress’s attention.

“I can order it fer you, Emil,” Norway offers. Iceland ignores him, which makes Norway pout. He stops when he hears Romania speak up and offer to buy it. This catches Iceland’s attention, as well as Norway’s. “Vlad?”

Romania smiles at Iceland sweetly. “No real reason for me t’be stingy with my good pal’s brother, an’ I think you can handle it.” Norway stiffens and side-eyes Romania. It doesn’t seem to sink in for the guy that he just slipped up until Norway’s hand, hidden under the table, slides over and squeezes his thigh tightly. Romania blinks and glances at Norway questioningly. It’s times like these Norway wishes he could communicate telepathically. He needs to ask England for lessons, or see if his troll can teach him. As soon as he learns, his first order of business is reprimanding Romania for referring to him as a “good pal” when they’re supposed to be dating. Pretend dating sure, but it’s a form of dating.

Norway interrupts quickly when he sees Iceland’s brows furrow. “I’ll buy it. Waitress, excuse me!” He raises his hand and gestures to one of the empty glasses on the table. “Another round!” The girl smiles and nods, her hair fluttering behind her as she maneuvers through the tables and towards the counter. Norway looks away from her and back to his brother. He suppresses a grin when he sees the Yoggi opened and pressed against Iceland’s lips as he takes a drink of it. Some things are incredibly predictable.

By the time Denmark and Iceland depart, Norway turns to face Romania and crosses his arms. “You messed up.”

“Hm?” Romania bats his eyes. He looks genuinely confused.

“You called me a good pal,” explains Norway. “If we’re gonna fake date, you gotta put in s’m’effort to whatcha call me y’know.”

Romania nods and, comedically, hits his palm with the bottom of his fist. He leans in a little close to Norway, but Norway doesn’t pull back. He finds the closeness comfortable. “What should I call ya?”

Norway glances up at the sky and thinks. “Hum… what are the cheesiest, most embarrassing names you can think’a?”

“Fer you?” Romania snickers and takes Norway’s chin between his fingers. The touch is much gentler than Norway could ever imagine somebody like Romania’s to be, and the surprise mellows him out too much to particularly care about how close their faces are, or recognize that because there’s nobody that can snitch on them in sight, they don’t have to keep up the charade. Receptively, Norway places his hands on Romania’s hips.

“Yes,” he says, “for me.”

Romania’s voice is smooth, teasing when he says, “You’re definitely ‘my snowflake’.”

Norway purses his lips and raises a hand to swat at Romania. His fake boyfriend giggles - giggles! - and leans away from the swat. Norway’s fingertips brush Romania’s hair when he swats and he smiles lightly at how soft it is. He raises his hand again in a calmer motion and takes a few strands of Romania’s hair between his fingers, rolling it between the tips. He’s so focused on the feeling he barely picks up on the light fluster in Romania’s cheeks.

Why should he pick up on it? They’re only dating to annoy Iceland. The fluster is just acting practice.

* * *

 

Two days pass before Romania plops down beside Norway on the ratty couch in his house and asks, “How long am I stayin’ here?”

“Y’got a hot date that isn’t me?” Norway chides back, making the both of them smile. “You cheatin’ on me already, my fake boyfriend?”

“Nobody could ever cheat on ya beautiful eyes, my snowflake.” Romania can’t even keep a straight face when he speaks, and his lips quiver with the need to laugh. Norway rolls his eyes and gestures vaguely with his hand, to which Romania starts cackling as if his words were the funniest thing he’s ever said. Once he calms down, wiping a tear from his eye, Romania says, “No, I’ve nothin’ to do. I was just wonderin’ how long we’re gonna be cooped up here. Ya did say I gotta stay with ya in case one of them Nordics visit ya at home so we can maintain this mirage.”

It’s true, and a fair question. The official meetings between the Nordics have come to an end, but some of them have yet to ship off to their own homes yet. Iceland was the first of them to go home, and soon after Greenland and Faroe took off together. This left only Denmark, Sweden, and Finland with the opportunity to drop by unannounced and surprise the two of them, and out of those three the only one Norway can figure would come by unannounced is Denmark. Finland always calls ahead, and Sweden isn’t the surprise visit type unless dragged into it by one of the other Nordics. The instigator that drags him into it is, no surprise, Denmark. The shorter of the two always ends up with Sweden chewing him out for it after, but even Norway can pick up on subtle amusement and good cheer behind the intimidating man when he crashes somebody’s house with Denmark. Sweden might appear stoic, but Norway knows how to spot the changes in his expression by now.

_ Being under Swedish rule does that to ya _ . Norway drinks his tea and ignores the bitter voice in his head.

“Nor?”

“Hm? Oh, sorry.” Norway sets the cup back on its saucer and looks at his guest. “I’d say stay til Denmark is back to his own house. I doubt Fin’r’Sve would bother us unannounced.”

Romania tilts his head. “Okay,” he starts, “but here’s a situation: I go back to my house, and Finland calls ya an’ tells ya he’s comin’ by that evening. How’s it you expect me to be here by then if I’m at my house?”

Norway deadpans. Then, he stands, taking Romania’s hand in his own and lugging him to his feet, and drags him to the front windows. He points a finger at the scorch marks on his front porch, and Romania grins like a goofy teenager which, if Norway’s completely honest, is a pretty accurate description of the nation. A goofy, warm, eager teenager with a hint of puppy. A puppy-teen. A were-dog-teen. He scrunches his nose up; Romania’s the country of vampire mythos, so he probably wouldn’t appreciate a werewolf comparison. He makes a note to ask Romania at a later date because when he turns to give him a pointed look, Romania is already across the room and in the kitchen, digging through the fridge.

Not a day after Denmark leaves Norway’s land does the Nordic hate how right Romania is because an hour after the Balkan country uses his magic to transport back to his house (which leaves  _ another _ glaring set of scorch marks on his front porch), Finland calls Norway and asks to come over with Sweden and Hanatamago.

“Told ya,” Romania whispers into his ear the second he re-arrives ( _ and re-scorches the porch _ ), to which Norway replies, “Shut up.”

Norway ignores how warm Romania’s breath was in his ear.

* * *

 

_ 22:03       From: Hungary  
_ _ yooo so I didn’t know you and that dog bastard were dating _

_ 22:04       To: Hungary  
_ _ If by dog bastard you mean Romania, yeah _

_ 22:04       From: Hungary  
_ _ why him of all people? i’d expect you to get back together with your ex if anything _

_ 22:05       To: Hungary  
_ _ I have a lot of exes, Hungary. Which one _

_ 22:07       From: Hungary  
_ _ denmark, or hell I wouldn’t be surprised if you had a fling with sweden _

_ 22:08       To: Hungary  
_ _ I’ll gladly have you know that even if we patched up a friendship and we’re diplomatically sound and comfy, I do not want to be any more involved with Sweden than possible _

_ 22:08       To: Hungary  
_ _ I’ve been there and I don’t want to do that again _

_ 22:09       From: Hungary  
_ _ but still……… that dog bastard? _

_ 22:11       To: Hungary  
_ _ He’s cute. And funny _

_ 22:11       To: Hungary  
_ _ Also gives good hickies _

_ 22:12       From: Hungary  
_ _ DIDN’T NEED TO KNOW THAT _

Norway sets his hairclip-slash-phone on the bedside table and shuts his eyes. When he wakes up in the morning, he finds he was added to a group chat an hour after the last message from Hungary, and now his eyebrow twitches as he scrolls through the argument said country had with Romania while he slept.

_ 7:42       To: Hungary, Romania  
_ _ Fuck you guys for blowing up my notifs _

He leaves the chat, and soon after a one-on-one message from Romania dings on his phone.

_ 8:01       From: Romania  
_ _ Sorry I love you _

_ 8:02       To: Romania  
_ _ We’re texting we don’t have to play here _

_ 8:24       From: Romania  
_ _ Aha, right _

_ 8:24       From: Romania  
_ _ I forgot _

* * *

 

The UN calls a meeting a week later, and Norway is forced to attend by his boss. What he isn’t forced to do is participate actively, so he lounges around with the other nations in the same position. Somehow, he finds himself talking to New Zealand. In the back of his mind, he digs for the last time they spoke.

“I haven’t seen you in so long, Norway,” says New Zealand with a polite smile. His hands are folded in his lap and his shepard stick rests against his leg.

Norway nods and sets his coffee down. “Our last personal interaction’s back ten years ago, correct?”

“When Clark visited your country,” New Zealand adds. He pushes further into the cushions and frowns. “These things aren’t nearly as soft as my couches at home. Perhaps I can convince my boss to refurnish the UN with wool couches.”

“Wool couches exist?”

New Zealand laughs lightly and nods. After kicking off his shoes, he puts one foot on the couch and hugs his leg to his chest. “They’re not common persay, but I enjoy them. Anyway,” he tilts his head and the kind smile drops, “I hear you’re contradicting yourself with your brother.”

“Contradicting?” Norway shifts to semi-face New Zealand on the couch. “Whaddya mean, Zea?”

“The mackerel. You’re changing your sweet tune compared to whaling.” Norway inhales sharply and turns away, and New Zealand’s eyes follow his body’s stiffening. “When Clark visited your home and your boss, she had quite a pickle trying to reason out why you insist on whaling so much. And yet here you are, and here your boss is, chastising Iceland and the Faroe Islands for their fishing industries.”

Crossing his arms, Norway watches as Germany sits down at a table with Sweden, offering him a mug of coffee. Why couldn’t he end up sitting with somebody that wouldn’t poke at his bad ecological choices in the past? He huffs before saying, “This is different.” He wants to say more and justify exactly why his whaling problems are different than Iceland’s and Faroe’s fishing problems (they aren’t, if he’s honest), but before he can verbalize it, he hears his name called from across the room. When he looks up, he smiles.

Romania comes to a stop in front of the two, hands resting on his thighs as he breathes in sharply from the jog over. His grin is lopsided when he aims it at Norway, following it with a, “Hi babe!”

Norway rests his elbows on his thighs and props his chin on top of his interlaced fingers. “Hello dear,” he says. When Romania doesn’t move, he rolls his eyes and leans forward to press a chaste kiss to his mouth. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Germany and, more importantly, Sweden looking at them. He keeps himself from grinning and scoots into the middle of the couch, closer to New Zealand before he pats the space he vacated. “Sit with us, Romania.”

“How could I refuse?” Romania flops down inelegantly and leans on Norway.

When he looks back at New Zealand, Norway finds his face has surprise and curiosity written all over it. “As you were sayin’, ‘bout the fishin’?”

New Zealand’s mouth flops open and shut for a second like a fish before he shrugs and looks away, as if embarrassed by the couple’s affection. “Nothing, nevermind,” he mutters. “I wasn’t aware you two-”

Whatever he says next falls on deaf ears before Romania nudges Norway gently and points across the room. Norway’s eyes follow the gesture and his brows raise when he sees Iceland staring at them with a pout. When the two brothers make eye contact, Norway purposefully leans further into Romania and pushes his face into the Balkan’s neck. This close, he can inhale his not-boyfriend’s scent and he’s pleasantly surprised when the smell of apples, cinnamon, and a slight smokiness hits his nose. It smells so nice that he needlessly inhales again and he sighs quietly, contentedly, and he rests his head there. One eye peeks open and he suppresses childish giggles at how Iceland is blanching and whining at Seychelles, who only smiles and runs a hand along his back in an attempt to comfort him.

He stays there for so long he doesn’t notice when New Zealand takes his leave and goes to find Australia. Norway swings his legs up onto the empty space and shuffles until he’s nestled comfortably against Romania’s chest, cheek pressed against a clothed pectoral with his fingers laced loosely around Romania’s torso. One of his not-boyfriend’s arms wraps around his shoulders while the other props his head up, elbow on the arm of the couch. For all intensive purposes, they look like affectionate lovebirds which is exactly what Norway is hoping for.

“Hey, Romania?”

“Yes?”

“Why’s your heart goin’ so fast?”

The muscles in Romania’s arm tense briefly before relaxing, and a huff of laughter sounds into the ear Norway has pressed to his chest. His heartbeat is still erratic though. “Probably giddiness at how well we’re getting your brother worked up. Isn’t yours the same?”

Norway doesn’t reply, and instead he moves to lean up and kiss Romania’s cheek. A loud groan comes from across the room and Norway smiles against Romania’s cheek.

* * *

 

Iceland concedes on the mackerel fishing issue way faster than expected.

Two weeks after the UN meeting, Norway drops by Finland’s house to discuss some economic decisions via orders from his boss. He knocks, and to his surprise he is not greeted by kind eyes and a welcoming smile but instead he finds eyes the same shade as his and hair a tinge silverier and a surprised scowl.

“Norway?” Iceland takes a step back and reflexively attempts to shut the door. Norway’s boot sticks into the crack to prevent this, and Iceland groans his submission and allows Norway to push the door open and enter Finland’s house. Instantly he feels paws on his leg and Norway kneels down to scratch behind Hanatamago’s ears.

He looks up and asks, at the same time his brother does, “What are you doing here?” He waves a hand and indicates for Iceland to speak first.

“I’m dogsitting,” explains Iceland. “My boss wanted me to talk to Finland, so I came over only to have him say he has to go see America about the sales of ships and instruments between the two of ‘em. He asked me to dogsit Hanatamago until he comes back.”

“Sve couldn’t?” That surprises Norway.

Iceland half-shrugs. “I called Sve and he didn’t pick up the phone, so my guess is he’s busy himself.” When Norway doesn’t move or say anything, Iceland puts his hands on his hips. “Well? He isn’t here, so leave.”

“Don’t be s’mean to your brother,” Norway mutters, and Iceland blanches. “Also, don’t tell me what to do when you’re the one in trouble with the EU, little brother. It’s unbecoming of your case and m’influence on it towards the rest of the EU if you’re mean to me.”

“Again with this?” Iceland huffs and turns his back towards Norway, grabbing the doorknob. He yanks the door open and points outside, shooting a glare over his shoulder. “Leave or I’ll have you thrown out.”

Norway smiles. “By who?” His smile falters when Iceland pulls his phone out and hits speed dial. Only two of Iceland’s contacts are on speed dial: one is his boss, and the other is…

“Denmark, can you come to Finland’s h- Hey!” Iceland wobbles and falls off balance, landing on his tailbone when Norway all but lunges and takes the phone from him. He briefly hears Denmark’s confused voice before he hangs up and tosses the device onto Iceland’s stomach. Hanatamago circles around the younger boy and woofs protectively. It’d be a cute sight if Iceland wasn’t glaring so harshly up at him. Norway adds yet another mental note to recreate this scene in a time with Iceland isn’t so mad at him.

Norway squats to be somewhat eye level with Iceland. His head falls to the right and he offers Iceland a hand which the younger nation not so politely declines by shoving it out of his field of vision. Norway raises a brow and remarks, “Now then, why’re you s’mean to me?”

“You’re so weird!” Iceland snaps. He draws his knees to his chest and sets his chin down on top of them. “You won’t leave the brother thing alone, you always try to make me out to be younger than I am, you wouldn’t take my side at the EU meeting even though Faroe did, and- and worst of all, you’re being so  _ weird _ with your boyfriend, especially around me. I don’t like it.”

“You jealous I’m not givin’ ya any attention?”

Iceland glares daggers at him. “Shut up, Norway.”

Norway waves a hand to dismiss it, moving to sit cross-legged. “Listen, it’s not like I sided against ya because I wanted to. My boss told me to. That’s not t’say I agree with all you an’ Faroe’s overfishing, though.” Iceland sinks down a little, and Norway sighs through his nose.

“Nor, you don’t get it,” Iceland mutters. “Fishing for my country is super important, and without it my economy won’t last. It’s more important than your oil industry, okay?” His anger seems to have subsided, and it makes Norway run a hand through his own hair and stare off to the side. Eventually he scoots closer until he can comfortably reach out and set a hand on his younger brother’s head, ruffling his hair.

“How’s about this?” Norway’s lips turn up in a small smile. “I’ll try to help ya with the mackerel thing, an’ offer ya and your boss tips on how t’fish responsibly.”

“Ya will?!” Iceland jerks up quickly, so surprised that his accent starts slipping through. Norway bites back a smile at how sweet he sounds. “Ya wanna side with me, an’ help me with th’ fish an’ stuffs?”

“You’ve been talkin’ to Sve too much,” Norway mumbles, “you’re fumblin’ up words. But yes, I’ll help ya. ‘n one condition.”

“Name it!”

Norway’s face breaks out in an incredibly expressive grin, and Iceland’s excitement dulls to dread when Norway’s lips part and the dreaded, “Big brother?” question is posed.

“Not again…”

“Do it.”

“... after you help me with the fish.”

“Deal.”

* * *

 

_ 13:47       To: Romania  
_ _ Hey can you come over? It’s about the dating thing _

The next time Norway looks at the clock it’s almost 14:00 and Romania has yet to text him back or arrive on his doorstep. His brow twitches and he rechecks his clip-phone in case he missed the notification. Nothing stares back at him, and he huffs.

_ 14:01       To: Romania  
_ _ Are you alive _

It’s not until the evening that he gets a reply.

_ 20:28       From: Romania  
_ _ Sorry sorry! Lots of business and stuff with my boss today. I’ll be over by 21:00 _

The clock flashes 21:17 at Norway and again he grumbles about the lack of contact. He picks the clip-phone out of his hair to message Romania again, but the second his thumb hovers over the send button, he hears a familiar noise and the slight hint of smoke from his front porch. Placing the clip back in his hair, he opens the door and raises a brow at just how disheveled Romania is on his doorstep.

“Busy day?” hums Norway. He pulls the door open wide enough for Romania to slip inside, and he’s surprised when Romania jumps when their shoulders brush. He sets it aside for now. “More it looks as if ya got dragged through the mud or somethin’.” Norway offers a joking grin, but Romania only returns it with a timid smile and nod before slipping further into the house. Norway’s airy amusement drops and a hint of suspicion coats his face. Romania doesn’t act like this. He never acts like this. Something must be up, but it can wait until after what he needs to talk about.

“Ro?”

“Yeah?” Romania sits down on the couch facing Norway and folds his hands in his lap. “Ya wanted ta see me?”

Norway nods shortly and leans over the back of the couch across from Romania, elbows sinking into the cheap fabric and filling. He’s had these things for so long he’s used to the low quality. “About the dating thing…”

“Are ya fake-breakin’ up with me, Nor?” Romania’s smile is an attempt at being playful, but it doesn’t reach his entire face, doesn’t reach his eyes like normal, and Norway grumbles mentally.

“Ro… y’alright?”

Romania jumps when he speaks and looks over his shoulder at the creaky, dilapidated wood making up the wall. He wears a mild smile uncomfortably, and it makes Norway’s jaw set. “I’m fine!”

Norway closes his eyes and sighs through his nose. While he doesn’t particularly love to do this, he figures he has no other way to get at what Romania’s hiding. His eyes open, lidded, and he raises a hand to point at Romania. Before his fake boyfriend can speak or react, a buzzing, tingling feeling rises in Norway’s chest and shoots down his arm and out his finger, jabbing directly into Romania’s forehead. His magic’s recipient reacts quickly once he realizes what Norway just did, and a repelling aura coats Romania’s mind and forcefully severs Norway’s connection with his thoughts.

He doesn’t act fast enough though, and before Norway is forced out entirely he picks up on a deep-set sadness. Sadness is not uncommon in nations’ minds given in their long lifespans, all of them eventually ended up with lost leaders and lovers, enemies made out of friends, and the chance at independence crushed by their fellow nations. Norway himself is no stranger to this sadness, and briefly he finds himself remembering how he felt the day Frederick abdicated his Norwegian throne and left for Denmark’s throne, leaving Norway in the hands of that cursed Charles bastard from Sweden, and exactly how deepset a feeling of betrayal overtook him for so long. Frederick is long dead and gone, and with a sigh Norway forces the memories from his mind to refocus on the present.

And in this present, Norway can’t place is why Romania’s emotional state is so down. If he were perchance in an official political union with Romania organized by their bosses, and the union was ending then perhaps he could understand why this sadness exists. But they are not in a union, they are not wed, and they are simply nations with a sense of camaraderie. When Norway opens his mouth at ask again, Romania cuts him off by saying, “It’s probably better we stop, yeah? Ya got Iceland to agree to calm down an’ listen to you and the EU, right? So stoppin’ while we’re ahead is a good idea. Besides,” Romania laughs, “we weren’t ever serious ‘bout this thing. Just a fun joke that dragged its heels.”

Norway eyes him, but he doesn’t say anything other than a small, “Of course,” to show his agreement. This whole charade was just intended to make Iceland concede on the mackerel. Iceland conceded. Therefore their fake dating game can peacefully meet its end. It all makes sense and yet the way Romania says it, the way he looks at Norway with a pitiful smile, it makes Norway’s gut clench and he feels blindsided.

_ Did he consider this genuine _ ? Norway stands upright and looks down at Romania, who is studying the worn down wood walls as if they’re pieces of art hung in France’s finest gallery. It’s the most obvious conclusion, but it doesn’t make any sense to Norway. All of his personal unions, his relationships and marriages, all of them were political. Denmark was political, Sweden was political, any and all alliances he ever made were political. The concept of somebody wanting a relationship beyond politics doesn’t make sense to him. With this in his mind, Norway dismisses the idea; Romania probably has some political motivation making him this sad, likely from his boss.

Romania stands abruptly and tilts his head to the left, grinning. It still isn’t in his eyes. “That all we had to discuss, my ex-snowflake?” Norway nods once, and soon warm arms are wrapped around his shoulders in a hug. His instinct is to shrink away, but Romania is so familiar by now after the pretending that he instead melts into the embrace and hugs him back. They separate after a few close, intimate seconds and Romania pulls back enough to look Norway in the eye. His lips are pulled in a thin, melancholy smile when he says, “This was fun. Thanks, Nor. I’ll see ya around the EU an’ UN.”

“Yeah, ya will,” says Norway. His fingertips brush against Romania’s hair, and he smiles faintly when he inhales and the same scent of smoke, apples and cinnamon hits him. “Text me when ya get a chance. I like hearin’ from ya.”

Romania pulls back a few feet and nods. He doesn’t make eye contact when he transports back and leaves the black scorch marks inside Norway’s house, on a dratty rug. Norway exhales, letting out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, and his hand reaches for his clip-phone. His hand hovers over it, and he sighs before lowering his hand. He can demand payback to fix the scorch marks next time he sees Romania.

In his gut, Norway gets a achey, lonely feeling which he dismisses. He’s been alone this long, he can stand to be alone again.


End file.
